time flies, time dies
by shiny happy fits of rage
Summary: There had been a bomb. A small bomb. A dangerous bomb, sure, but not one that they all couldn't have handled. Wally could have disabled it, for cripes sake. But Connor had followed his instincts, and before anyone knew it, he had turned into the shield he wore on his chest with a grudging sort of pride. Prompt #11814: one blaze of glory


**if you like this, please check out the other entries in my The Story of Love is Hello, Goodbye** **collection! They are all shorter one-shots such as this, mainly Spitfire. Listed in chronological order on my profile.**

* * *

This is by far the best possible death he could imagine.

He runs and he runs, and he can hear Barry and Bart shouting and the sound as their feet pound the ice thousands of times per second, and it is all the loveliest background noise in the world. The electricity burns his molecules and, in a side pocket of his mind that has already reached the place where time does not exist, he imagines his protons on fire. Every few nanoseconds, he sees the reds and blues and greens that stand out brilliantly against the white nothingness of the landscape. Hopefully the wind that screams in protest and tears up the air around them will hide from the watching oblivious crowd – will hide from _her_ – the moment where it hits him one last time and his atoms are disintegrated, any possible remains now microscopic and lost to the cold Artic air.

* * *

A fifteen year old Kid Flash watched petulantly, his hands shoved under his armpits and his goggles hanging listlessly around his neck, as his teammate was cooed over by a pretty girl made from poinsettias and sugar and spice. Connor didn't smile up at her as much as stop frowning as she talked, in overjoyed skips and giggles that contrasted nicely with one gaping lull, where M'gann faltered and blinked desperately, still smiling brightly down at the boy in the white hospital bed. Robin danced around them, a bottle of sparkling apple cider in his hands that he and Zatanna were using as celebratory champagne. Kaldur watched all of this, a satisfied half-smile on his face.

There had been a bomb. A _small_ bomb, Wally had pointed out, but Kaldur had fixed him with such a deprecating stare and Artemis had hit him so hard that he hadn't really felt inclined to make sure everyone understood that it had actually been a rather small bomb when compared to all the other bombs of the world. A dangerous bomb, sure, but not one that they all couldn't have handled. Wally could have _disabled_ it, for cripes sake, regardless of the fact that the countdown began with five seconds, and no one would be the hospital bed right now being fawned over. But the storage closet they had found themselves in was dismally dark and locked from the outside, and Connor had followed his instincts, and before anyone knew it, he had shoved them all away and turned into the shield he wore on his chest with a grudging sort of pride.

"Sulking as usual, I see." Artemis came to stand next to him, her elbow brushing against his as she leaned against the glass. She had changed out of her uniform, into sweatpants and a blue _Paulie's Diner_ t-shirt. Her hair was wet, neatly combed into cleanly separated strands down her back.

Wally continued to watch the celebration through the observation glass of the infirmary. He had no interest in any criticisms Artemis might have for him at that moment and he especially had no interest in being near her. When the bomb had gone off, she'd been standing to his left, and she'd made a sound so infinitely small, so wretched that he never could've guessed it had come from her. None of them had seen Connor until the explosion wasn't quite as _final_ as they'd anticipated. In that single, dizzy moment, death was inevitable to all of them, and death was inevitable to her, and she'd clutched his hand with a ferocity that left him numb.

"I could've disabled the bomb," he said. "I'm serious."

She exhaled through her nose. "No one cares, Wally. Sorry if that's rude, or – or whatever, but no one cares if you _possibly_ were able to disable the bomb. It doesn't make a difference, not in this business."

"No, that's not rude at all," he said bitterly, too young and too close to the moment to notice her half-buried apology hidden in the familiar rawness of her voice. "You were completely courteous. The picture of politeness. A perfect lady."

"Oh, shut up, Wally," she said, tiredly. Artemis uttered a little half-laugh and shook her head at her decrepit Doc Martens, as if they were the only ones in the room who could sympathize with her. "Here you are, pissed because Connor _risked his life _to save all of us – to save _your _ass - and you're telling me that I'm being too rude. You – you're such a hypocrite, Wally. A goddamn hypocrite."

"I could've stopped the bomb," he insisted, and he could tell he was whining but he didn't care. "Next bomb we find, let me at it. I swear I can disable it."

"Do have a death wish or something? Is this what this is about?"

"No!"

"Then why do you care? Give me one good reason for you to be angry because – once again, in case you missed it the first time – _Connor saved our lives_." She dragged out her words, glaring at him with an air that let him know exactly just how stupid she felt he was being at that exact moment.

Wally clenched his fists. "He didn't have to! He just did it – he wanted to impress M'gann or impress Superman, or something. If he would just _think_ for a split second – there was a way to neutralize the bomb without him getting nearly blown up!"

Inside, M'gann had stopped fluttering anxiously around Connor. She was still, her head cocked slightly, her eyes watching them through the glass, a slight frown spilling from the corners of her mouth. Wally stopped waving his arms around and tried to think about something other than the disbelieving angry look on Artemis's face, but the only image that came to mind was the lights turning on to reveal the countdown that started from five seconds.

Artemis followed his gaze. "Like you're any different." She muttered something under her breath he would've heard if he was Superboy, and turned on her heels, walking away.

But Wally wasn't done; he was bitter and tired and above all completely irritated by both the turn of events today had taken and Artemis's cryptic snubs, her pretentious condemnations. "What, so I'm an asshole now? Just because I think Connor made a bad call doesn't –"

"You're an asshole because you're angry at Connor for being the hero," she snapped, not turning around. She was not going to the infirmary, which for some reason gave Wally a ridiculous feeling of pride, but rather down the hall, likely to her room. Stupidly, he trailed after her. "Just _grow up_, okay Wally? This isn't about you."

"You're damn right it isn't about me!" he shouted, catching up to her. "This is about everyone else _but _me, in case you're such a moron you didn't notice, Artemis."

"Don't call me –"

"It's true! It is so _true_! Connor sacrifices himself every fucking day for the sake of the world, and Aqualad is the fearless leader, so everyone looks up to him, and Robin is _Robin_ – when is it my turn? I'm _ready,_ I am, I can _be _the hero, I could've disabled that bomb, just no one will give me a goddamn chance!"

The silence that followed bumped and stumbled, and Wally realized with a certain degree of discomfort that he hadn't meant to say those words, nor had he known they were inside of him all this time. She had stopped moving and so had he. He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to think of something to say that could negate what he'd just said. He couldn't.

Artemis turned around slowly, and her face was a perplexing mix of frustration and something much more, something that resembled fondness and was akin to jealousy but could most accurately be described as yearning. "God, Wally," she said softly. "Do you even hear yourself? How could – everyone knows you're a hero. Who cares if you didn't get it, this one time? You save so many people, you idiot. You're a hero, Wally. You honestly are."

He met her eyes for as long as he could, and then he glanced too her left, at the emergency light glowing a muted yellow on the ceiling. "Yeah, I – you know, how it is. I guess – I guess I just want that moment. You know? The Hero Moment. Uh, capital H, Capital M."

"So you _do _have a death wish," she observed, dryly, but for once it wasn't harsh and it wasn't aggravating, and it sort of felt like friendship.

He smiled back at her, a bit sheepishly. "I guess."

* * *

Of course, living a long, normal life would've been nicer, he muses to himself, as he watches each snow flake kicked up by his boots pass leisurely. Everything seems to be running in slow motion as he slowly is destroyed, and if he concentrates, he can convince himself that he hears Artemis saying his name.

She isn't. She doesn't know what is going on within the tornado, cannot possibly have any idea that he will entirely and wholly cease to _be_ within nanoseconds. And that, truthfully, kills him more than the actual dying part. At least he will be able to get a message to her one last time that he loves her, a message from which only she will be able to decode the nights he didn't sleep when she was away and the contented sigh that was their Palo Alto apartment and the utter inexhaustible _need_ that rose in his throat every time he saw her. She will get that, and he doesn't know how she will react to his absent existence, but at least she'll have that last confirmation_._

But he is dying, and he wants to see her again, and hear her tell him it's going to be okay, and that they'll see each other again someday (above all, he needs that wonderful, despicable lie). And it takes everything in him not to skid to a stop and try to break free of the energy and kiss her one last time.

But she will live past today, and so will Dick, and so will his parents and his friends and every person he's ever met, all of whom don't deserve to die because he wants a last embrace. And the world will survive this last remnant of the invasion, and it will recover, and in a few weeks, Bart will unfold the old, smaller yellow and red suit sitting in Wally's closet, and pull it over his bones, and no one will ever know the difference.

So he runs.


End file.
